'Thinking out of the 'box' is what I do. An Igbo adage said ''nkem di iche bu ajo afa''. I dont think that's true. Being different is the first step to a long lasting change.
Dare to be different, dare to think differently

Tuesday, 12 July 2016

SOMETHING THAT EATS OIL

Mum used to carry me in her arms to the
park. She would leave me with one of the female park nanny and scurry off to
join her girlfriends at the bar where they shared juicy gossips about who got a
new guy, whose guy was rich and who was secretly dating a minor while sipping
from bottles of chilled beer. Once I turned ten, mum allowed me to go on my
own. It is a little walk down the street, the first right turn then a straight
walk, pass the train station, another right then a short walk, and the orange
rail gate of Savannah Park rises across the road.

“Be careful when crossing the road,” mum
says.

“I will,” I voice right back.

I admire so many things about the park;
the carpet of green grass that stretches around the park, the ornamental
flowers lined in a way that accentuates their natural colours and makes the
field look like a painting leapt off an artist’s canvass. For some of us that
are not afraid to wander, there is a sparkling river when you descend the hill
at the back of the park. I understand it supplies water to the municipal. The
park guards scolds us each time they see us descend the hill. There is a small
strip of land like an Island where the sky meets the water, like it is
preventing the sky from touching the water.

What eats my time is not the white beach
sand and swing on the playground which bigger boys monopolize to show how
romantic they can be to their girlfriends. They raise them onto the sitting
platform and push them gently from behind. They take turns to do that. How
absurd! I also don’t like the roller coaster because it makes me want to throw
up. The slide is too childish for me now.

Fred, Mike and I like to climb the tree
house that stands in the middle of the park like the forbidden tree in Garden
of Eden. The wood steps nailed onto the stem guides us up safely. The tree
house is spacious and can take up to five of us. When I was younger I always
wanted to climb the tree house but the park attendants won’t let me. From the
tree house you can see the entire park and over the hill to the beautiful
river. I love the blue colour of the summer sky on the river which quickly
changes to yellow-orange flakes as the sun comes out.

Mike is the shortest of the three of us
and the chubbiest too. Fred is lank and the tallest but still fits into the
tree house––though it worries him that time is fast approaching when he will
not fit in again. I am just in-between the two. I don't know how to describe
myself but people say I have my mum’s oval face and my dad’s square shoulders.

“Be careful or you fall and explode,” I
taunt Mike as he hugs the steps frightfully.

I appreciate the park more, since our
teacher taught us how trees purify our air without taking a dime from us. Our teacher
tells us things that make his lips unsteady like he is afraid of something or
perhaps somebody, and he begins to talk in whispers. This happened few weeks
ago when he told us how some influential men in the country are ruining government
plans for clean energy.

“Selfish men,” he called them. “Because
they have refineries outside the country from which our government buys PMS,
they are frustrating any plan to explore clean energy. They know it will affect
their sales.”

Tiny droplets of sweat broke out on his
face and he stopped talking.

The park is becoming thinner. People are
buying portions of it to erect new houses. It baffles me why there should be
new houses while the available ones still has empty rooms. Mum took me to one
of her friend’s lodge last month and the mansion still has over fifty unoccupied
rooms according to my mum’s friend.

The park is no longer quiet because of
the noise from the construction machines. They dump much rubbish into the river
too; debris, mud, oils from the heavy machines, cements, paper, plastic and
rods. As far as my eyes can see from the tree house, the river is no longer
sparkling like diamonds in splinter of light. If it is my first time of looking
that direction from the tree house, I will think it is an unexplored wasteland.
The number of people that visits the park is thinning too. The excitement that
used to be on my face whenever I am in the park is now replaced by tingling on
my spine like I am in a graveyard. I jerk at sudden movements, and the
whistling of wind makes me uneasy. I am worried when I learn Sam’s dad owns an
oil company on the strip of land at the horizon because our teacher told us the
terrible things that could happen if there is an oil spill but each time I peer
into that distance, I see nothing.

It started like rumour that the entire
park was bought over by Sam’s dad to make it a dumping ground for his companys’
waste for easy treatment and discharge into the river. The park is marked for
demolition.

“Sam, please ask your dad if it is
true,” I plead. “Tell him how we love the tree house.”

Fred nods, “this is the only good
childhood memory I have.”

“O…k,” Sam stutter, “but my dad is
stubborn.”

“Please try,” I insist.

The news Sam brings to us the next day
forces Goosebumps to form on our skin. He confirms it is true that his father
has paid for the place but what is scarier is that the place will be leveled in
three days’ time. I slump to my buttocks with my back resting on the wall of
the tree house. Frank is pacing up and down.

“We can still do something to stop this.
Can’t we?” Frank says to no one in particular.

I sigh. Sam is frowning.

I love the way crazy ideas come to my
head when I am in a fix.

“Oh yes!
If-we-get-all-the-kids-that-comes-to-the-park-to-rally-around-the-tree-house-I-am-sure-they-will-retreat,”
I speak in one pulse and my words sound like rambling.”

“Jay, calm down,” Fred gestures. “What
did you just say?”

I repeat myself, but slower this time.

“Yes, that’s right,” Fred scream, and
crush Sam’s ribs with hug, then lifts him few inches off the ground.

My mouth is open staring at Fred lift
Sam from the ground. The idea that Fred will snap like a twig on recoil swirl
in my head. Fred drops Sam and stands and nothing happens to him. We are all
laughing. We share out the regions each person will go. Sam will be persuading
the kids in the estate which his dad owns. Fred will win the kids living around
the park up to the train station while I will influence the kids from the block
opposite the train station to the block after my house. We agree to meet in the
tree house every morning to discuss our progress.

It is a day before demolition. I am
nervous. Each time I raise my eyes to the tree house, flashes of what will
remain when the bulldozers are done fills my head––plain field with no green
lined by tyres tracks. These thoughts make me sweat a lot like our teacher.
These must be some of the things that go through his head.

We are sitting in the tree house
searching frantically for all the children we spent the past two days
convincing to join our crusade but see none. The doppler revving of tractors
makes my heart thump faster than it normally does. I look through the open
window and see three tractors of various configurations with their exhaust
puffing black smoke into the air. Sam’s dad step out of his Prado Jeep fully
kitted in black suit. We climb down from the tree house one after the other.
Sam’s dad is an older version of Sam; short and rounded on the torso.

Sam is begging his father to leave the
tree house. He is trying to explain to his father the need for him to change
his line of business and invest in clean energy that will bring down air
pollution. Fred and I are standing with our backs to the tree house.

“They will uproot me first before they
can touch the tree house,” I whisper to Fred.

“Me too,” he say.

Sam’s dad is agitated and his wrinkled
face is showing his irritation. He is raising his voice and pushing Sam out of
his sight. People are beginning to gather at the scene. A newscaster arrives
and raises his camera, pacing around to get everyone on camera. Fred and I
refuse to bulge. A crowd has formed behind Sam’s dad and the tractors; men,
women, children, old and young.

“Clear these things out of this place,”
Sam’s dad orders the tractor operators.

My heart pumps again as the tractor
cackle till the engine runs evenly. I pin my eyes hoping for the worst. I am
wondering what Fred is thinking.

A tiny but firm voice comes from the
crowd, “I am with Sam.”

I
open my eyes and flash them to the direction of the voice. I recognize the boy.
He is Terry, the bully that lives in my street. He is nodding his big head,
punching his right fist on his left open palm and repeating himself as he walks
towards us. I never liked Terry but the way he is swaggering towards us is
making my head swell and I am forcing back the smile in my heart fruitlessly.

His followers and other children who are
afraid he will beat them up if they do nothing begin to march up with him, lending
voice to his chant. Sam’s dad is stunned and Sam stops begging. The older men
and women turn to Sam’s dad and begin to call him bad names.

“We will be back tomorrow and nothing
will stop me from bringing this place down,” Sam’s dad say and enter his car.

The car zooms off. Everyone begins to
cheer.

As I lie down that night, sleep refuses
to take me on a ride. I keep rolling from side to side. I know we were just
lucky today and may not be tomorrow. Other thoughts that unsettle me are; what
mum will say if it gets to her ears what I have done today? Why did we pitch
Sam against his dad? I inhale till my lungs are full and let my thoughts go out
with it.

My head hurts. It is like I blinked and
it is morning. Mum is making breakfast. Egg is sizzling in the frying pan.

“Good morning mum,” I greet.

“Good morning honey. Thought you will
never wake up.”

I yawn. The phone rings and she
stretches her hand to pick it out of the wall.

“Hello?” she speaks into the phone.

Short pause.

She turns to me, “honey this is for
you.”

I take the phone from her, “hello.”

It is Sam. He is calling to tell me that
his dad has come down with stroke.

“What!” I scream. “What happened?”

Mum freezes with her eyes on me. Sam is
explaining how vandals and pirates attacked his dad’s oil company in the night.
There was a shoot-out between them and security and in the process there was an
explosion. He said the river is polluted with crude oil, and that people are
falling sick from drinking the water.

“People are pointing fingers at us.” His
voice burst into sobs and trails off.

I stare at the phone for a while before
I hang it back on the wall.

“Is there any problem honey?” mum ask.

I shake my head from side to side afraid
that if I open my mouth, words––even those I wish not to say––will come out. I
move to the television and press the power button. There is a news flash
written in red scrolling across the bottom of the screen. A female newscaster
is talking about it.

“Hospitals in the municipal are
witnessing a horde of victims. The three hospitals in the municipal can’t take
any more and ambulances are in a convoy taking people to hospitals in others
cities. The death toll is rising. The cause has been traced to water
pollution.”

They show a cut scene of the chaos in
the municipal and the dark river. Tears come easily to the eyes of those who
are not already sick.

I visit the park. The tree house is
still standing, and the gentle gush of wind sways the green leaves. The park is
deserted; no security, no attendants, nobody. I make my way to the back of the
park and climb over the hill.

The river is a total disaster and it is
the only source of water the municipal has. The entire surface of the river as
far as my eyes can see is covered with slurry-like thick black liquids. Fishes
are trying to jump out of the water but as they do, they get their entire body
covered with crude. They jump a little more and stay afloat. I realize the
bumps on the water surface are dead fishes. There are so many of them. I know
it is a matter of time before those of us who are not down with the river fiver
will die of thirst and dehydration.

I
head to Fred’s house and knock. No response. I knock again and again. A next
door neighbour opens her door.

“Boy, you are making a racket.”

I turn her direction, “I am sorry, but I
need to see my friend.”

“Go check the hospital and let us have
some peace.”

“Hospital? What...” I begin to say but
she hiss and retreat inside.

In front of Sam’s estate, there are men
in their thirties and forties holding placards with different inscriptions. The
security man has shut the gates and the protesters want to go in. A young boy
about my age picks up a stone and hurls it through the gaps on the gate. The
women among them are not running around and hitting the gates like the men.
They gather themselves in a circle singing death songs. Tears are coming to my
eyes and make me feel like there are tiny stones pressing on my retina. I turn
around and walk away. I think of all the ways these would have been averted.
But Sam is still my friend and it hurts to see him unsafe. I feel the same
thing I felt when the tree house was threatened.

The death toll has clocked eight
thousand and fifty six the last time I listened to news. I am getting scared
because our reserve is almost up. UN and neighbouring countries are bringing
aid but there are never enough. Schools and offices are still shut in the
municipal. Roads are becoming desolate except for the intermittent blaring of
ambulance siren.

I
am walking down the street, going to nowhere in particular. I enjoy the heat of
the sun on my skin and the feel of the breeze on my face but the street smells
different. It smells of death and decaying flesh and the wails rippling out of
some houses I pass are piercing my eardrums like someone is stuffing cotton
swab in my ears. A car slows down beside me and the window winds down.

“What you did for the tree house is
brave. It aired on television for days. That maniac would have killed us all if
he had pushed through.”

I panic. Thank goodness my mum never
switches on the television. I bring down my shield and we begin to talk. He
introduces himself as Dr. Hanks. He tells me how they are trying to use
detergent to clean up the oil but regrets the detergent will cause further harm
to aquatic life. He is thinking of a better way.

“There is something that eats up oil
around the tree house,” I joke.

I recall there was a time Sam spilled
his food which had lots of groundnut oil while climbing the tree. The next day
the oil was gone.

“Genius! I wonder why I never thought of
that,” Dr. Hanks smile.

I take him to the tree house as he
requested and he takes a sample of the soil around the tree. Four days later,
it is on news that Dr. Hanks has discovered Alcanivorax,
a bacterium that eats oil. He has genetically modified it in the lab––to make
it more efficient––and spread it over the river.

“The water is becoming clean and in few
days’ time it will be safe again,” Dr. Hanks explain.

Dr. Hanks is getting much attention and
it pains me that he has not mentioned my name. As I watch him answer the questions
the presenter is asking him, I think of the terrible things I will do to him if
our path crosses again.

About Me

My name is Anthony Emecheta l Enthusiastic writer l Not award winning anything l One failed attempt at a novella publication l Freelance writer, but don't expect me to do it for free l Trust me to always talk about what people don't want to talk about.